


How Dean Winchester Got Scrooged

by darkforetold



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Drug Use, Fluff and Angst, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-24
Updated: 2015-12-24
Packaged: 2018-05-09 00:16:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,122
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5518355
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/darkforetold/pseuds/darkforetold
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean loves curses. So much so, that after dealing with the Mark of Cain, he gets cursed <i>again</i> and is visited by none other than Christmas' favorite ghosts; Past, Present, and Future. Their visits have nothing to do with his humbug Christmas spirit, and everything to do with Cas, his best friend and long-time-ago boyfriend. With their relationship in pieces, Dean fights to set it right before time runs out—before Cas is lost to him forever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How Dean Winchester Got Scrooged

"Stay where I can see you."

Sam rolled his eyes and headed for a dusty shelf. "Not twelve anymore, Dean."

"Nope. Too big and ugly for that."

Sam's chuckle died in cobwebs and shadows as Dean rounded a corner and began looking through another shelf. They were who-the-fuck-knew-where in rural Missouri, trying to get a bead on the Darkness. After a little creative persuasion, payback for fucking with Cas, Rowena spilled what she knew about some book they'd need to combat the newest Big Bad in their lives. The book's location was conveniently hundreds of miles away from the bunker, in an old Men of Letters library that hadn't seen the light of day in the better part of over thirty years. 

Same shit, different day.

Somewhere in the dark, Sam sneezed on dust. Alive, not dead.

Dean poured over the broken spines of ancient books, over letters he couldn't read anymore because they were either old as fuck or written in a language he'd never set his eyes on. Rowena hadn't said much about the book or its description, and after three hours of looking and finding nothing, Dean figured they'd been sent on a wild goose chase. Dean scratched at his arm in frustration, right over where the Mark had been, simply out of habit.

"Sam, you find anything yet?"

"No."

The word sounded more distant than he liked. Dean let out a sigh, and it reverberated across the large, old, empty library. "Why don't you come on back? Ain't nothin' here."

Fucking witches.

He took a book out of its place, leafed through the pages, and swore when several of them fell to the floor. They scattered like white feathers across the dark floorboards, and it reminded him immediately of Cas. His heart hurt, but he ignored it and bent low to sweep up forgotten papers so thin and fragile, one of them tore when he touched it—and he got zapped for it. Dean fell back on his ass from the shock of it and cupped his fingers, looking them over for damage. Nothing. 

Then something... happened. 

The tips of his fingers turned electric blue, like lights were dancing just under his skin. The lights spilled down his fingers, all five lines pooling in his palm, then dripping down to his wrist. Another zap, and there it was—another fucking mark.

"You've _got_ to be fucking kidding me," Dean hissed.

"What? You find something?"

Dean jumped out of his skin and whipped his head up. Sam frowned at him, questions all over his face, then opened his mouth—

"No. I got nothing." Dean got up from the floor and pushed past his wall of a brother. "Let's get out of here."

Sam had always known better to ask questions, so he didn't.

:::

They didn't talk the whole ride back to the bunker. Dean kept the radio loud and the window down despite it being in the middle of December. His music and the cold kept his mind off things—like how much his wrist hurt and how completely exhausted he was.

By the time they'd gotten back to the bunker, chills had taken over his body. He felt hot all over, achy, weak, just like he'd feel if he'd caught the flu. He'd been doing the hunting gig long enough to know he had a curse, and the flimsy paper he accidentally ripped had been his golden ticket to feeling like utter shit.

Even home didn't make him feel any better.

He parked his baby in her usual spot in the garage, killed her engine, and got out. His legs felt like jelly, and he paused for a moment to brace himself against his baby's hood.

"You okay?"

"Yeah, fine."

Sam gave him a look. They both knew he wasn't fine, and he was less fine when they got inside, when Cas, wrapped in a gray blanket, reading a book because he couldn't do much else, looked up at him with bleary eyes. They were still a little blood-shot, enough to remind him what Rowena had done to him. His chest hurt worse than any pain any curse could ever inflict on him.

"Dean..."

_You're in pain, I can tell_ was in his blue eyes. _Let me fix it_ was written in the concern on Cas' face. The way he'd said his name, always a touch reverent, soft and meaningful said _I love you_ without it being said.

All Dean could see was how he failed him.

So, Dean looked away.

"I'm going to bed."

He shuffled through the halls, to his room. Inside, he peeled his clothes off and threw them on the floor, sliding under the covers, practically drowning in his own sweat. The chills wracked his body, and he shivered to the point where his teeth chattered.

_It's only the flu._

But he knew better.

—and so did Cas.

He hadn't heard him come in. All he knew was that Cas was sitting next to him on the bed, looking at him with those eyes that still weren't quite his. Fragile, _broken_. He wanted to say he was sorry for beating him down so brutally, for letting Rowena get a hold of him, for not being there. For being a dick. For not loving him like he should.

He said, "What do you want?" instead.

Cas let out a sigh, a ribbon of air that sounded more like a wail of emotional and physical exhaustion. "Are you all right, Dean?"

"I'm fine," Dean snapped. "Just the flu, okay? Get off my ass."

Cas frowned, and Dean instantly regretted his tone, how he treated him—everything. He expected Cas to leave, like everyone else always did, but Cas didn't. Instead, Cas sat there, his guardian angel, and let his hands fall in his lap where Dean didn't want them. He wanted Cas' hands all over him because he knew how good they used to make him feel. How good _Cas_ used to make him feel. But all of that was before, when it'd been simpler, when they had less between them. When he hadn't fucked up so badly.

"I could make you Kitchen Sink Soup like your father did—"

"You don't know how to cook, Cas."

"But I could try."

Cas would always try. He never gave up on him.

"I just want to go to sleep," Dean said. "I'll be good in the morning."

Or dead.

Cas swallowed hard and curled his fingers in his lap. He was holding something back, Dean knew it, but Dean couldn't bear to face it. Too tired to care, too impatient with the chills, the aches, the pains, Dean simply wanted to curl up and sleep. If he made it 'til morning, fine. If he didn't...

Dean almost reached out for him when Cas got up from the bed. The one who mattered most, who'd always been there no matter what, was at the door and out before Dean could lift his fingers. With the door shut, with darkness swallowing him up, Dean fell into a fitful sleep. 

:::

He startled awake. There was only darkness first, thick and suffocating, before his eyes slowly adjusted. Then, an abnormal cold, like a ghost had been stupid enough to wander into the wrong room at the wrong time. His breath tumbled out of his mouth like graveyard mist, just as glacial as the rest of the room felt. The covers up to his neck didn't chase away the cold, but somehow amplified it, making it bone-deep and numbing. He tried closing his eyes. Tried to ignore the mist billowing out from under his bedroom door. The dragging of chains forced him to awareness again, but this time his vision refused to focus. Suddenly, he was frozen in fear, like in a dream. He couldn't move, barely breathe, and when his door flew open on its own accord, he couldn't gasp. Couldn't react. Couldn't tear his eyes away from the very real darkness that crept in and crowded the room. The sound of chains grew louder, nearer, the stench of death so pungent, so real, it clawed at the inside of his throat. Clung to the inside of his nose, strangling him, drawing him closer to his own inevitable end. This was how he'd die, then. Drowning in darkness, the outline of a figure coming tow—

Dean let out a breath. "You fucker."

Gabriel grinned and dropped the chains. "Miss me?"

He could move again, and did, giving him the middle finger. "Thought you were dead."

"I get that a lot." Gabriel brushed his hands of dirt. "So, Dean-o. Word is you got a thing for curses."

Dean thumbed the mark on his wrist. "That what this is?"

Gabriel rolled his eyes. "Duh. What was it this time? An ancient relic from the Renaissance? The bones of the Silver Pharaoh?"

"A piece of paper," Dean snapped. "Why are you here? You behind all this?"

"As much as I'd like to say yes... no." Gabriel crossed his arms over his chest. "I do odd jobs here and there when I get bored. So, when some idiot touches a cursed object—"

"You show up as some giant bag of dicks."

"Exactly. So, here I am." Gabriel pointed at him, "Idiot," then at himself. "Giant bag of dicks."

"Okay, so. Bottom line it for me, then. Am I going to die? No, wait. Let me guess." Dean smirked. "I'm going to be forced to kill everyone I love, then live with the consequences."

"No. Because as history has shown, you're hopeless and learn nothing from curses so... dramatic and messy."

"Then?"

"You're going to get Scrooged."

"What?"

"Come on, Dean. Scrooged." When Dean didn't get it, Gabriel cleared his throat and boomed out, "You're going to be visited by three ghosts—"

"Are you kidding me?"

"Does it look like I'm kidding?"

"So, what? I accidentally touched some... cursed first edition of Dickens' _A Christmas Carol_?"

Gabriel shrugged. "Don't know, don't care, but you get the idea. Three ghosts. Change or else."

"Change what?"

His empty room didn't provide an answer. The ungodly chill had disappeared, along with the mist, the darkness... everything except the dirty chains on the floor in the middle of the room. Dean scowled at them, then got up and dragged them into the closet—his neat-freak thing was becoming a problem—and grabbed a shotgun.

In bed again, Dean loaded the gun and waited.

::: 

He woke up again sometime later in the same way, cold as fuck with darkness thick like oil just outside his open door. The ghost had barely emerged before he got a shot off, before a voice shouted, "Whoa! Watch it, dude!"

A voice he'd know anywhere.

"Charlie?"

She peeked out from the doorway, hair frazzled and eyes wide. Looking exactly the way she did before she'd—

"Is that any way to treat a friend you haven't seen in... wow, how long has it even been?"

"Three months—and sorry, you know, for shooting you."

"No problem. I'm lucky you're a shit-shot."

She grinned her happy-go-lucky grin, the one that could brighten a whole room, and Dean relaxed, letting out a puff of air. Charlie came out of the darkness then, looking much like she did when he last saw her alive. Same flannel, same clown shirt, her red hair bobbed and fiery. No blood, no stab wounds. Thank fuck for small favors.

Her smile began to disappear. "You know, I'm not complaining about seeing you and all, but... why am I even here?"

"You don't know?"

"No."

"I think you're one of my ghosts—"

Charlie gasped. "Do you see dead people now?"

"Yes... no. I mean. Look. Some... _dick_ said I'd be visited by three ghosts—"

"Three ghosts? Wait... Like—" When Dean nodded... "No way! And I'm one of them? Which one? Future? I've always wanted to be Future. He always looks like he's dead, like a zombie!"

"You're the first one, so I think you're Past."

"Past?" Charlie sighed. "That's the most boring one. Why would I be—"

When blood blossomed and began to spread across her gray T-shirt like spilled ink, she said, "Oh."

Dean ran a hand down his face, then motioned to her. "Charlie, I'm sorry. I—"

"Dude, no worries. I'm in Heaven with my Mom now. Pretty happy, all things considered—you know, being dead and all." Her infectious grin came back. "So, this ghost thing. What do we do? I guess I have to show you how things were, so you can change how your life is going right now, right?"

"Yeah, except... I don't even know what this is about." Dean shrugged. "It could be anything. My addiction to porn..."

"Your alcoholism."

"Yeah—"

"You're a pretty shitty friend..."

"Hey now. Take it easy."

"Chill." Charlie grinned. "Whatever it is, we'll figure it out. Together. Like old times."

"Yeah. Like old times." Dean swallowed. "So, Ghost of Christmas Past, where do we start?"

"I don't know, but something tells me I need to touch you," Charlie said, holding up her glowing fingers.

Before he could say a word, Charlie touched two fingers to his forehead. His room faded away, and he got that same sick feeling he'd gotten every time Cas warped him someplace new. This someplace new blazed heat across his skin, the distinctive smell of wood burning filling his nose. When he looked up—

His childhood home was on fire.

There he was, his four-year-old self, clutching baby Sammy. Dad nowhere in sight. 

A part of him died.

"This doesn't feel right."

Charlie touched him again, and the scene disappeared. Stanford-era Sam stomped down the sidewalk to his packed car, slammed the door and drove off while his past-self watched, too wounded to breathe or move. He wouldn't see or talk to his baby brother for years. The day Sammy left for college still hurt even to this day.

" _Dude_. You're really shit at this."

"It's my first time being a ghost, Dean. Give me some slack."

Another touch and another tragedy. This time, Dad's body was burning. The smell of the ash and the pain of that memory—it nearly suffocated him.

"I think I got it this time. Hold on."

They ended up in front of a non-descript house. Rain pelted them, but he didn't feel it. Lightning flashed, thunder rolled across the sky... and a past version of himself and Cas rushed out, to the Impala and fumbled inside to get away from the downpour. They drove off with a roar.

Dean knew where this was going.

"Let's get out of here."

"No way. I finally got it right. I can feel it."

She grabbed his arm, and they magically disappeared then reappeared in the backseat of the Impala. In the front, past-him drove and Cas sat passenger side. The adrenaline that poured off them, that... _something else_ —he could feel it as if he were experiencing it all over again. They'd just escaped from Raphael's, back when the Apocalypse was turning into an all-out shitfest. This was their...

"Charlie, we have to go. _Now_."

Past-them stopped the car off some rural highway. As soon as the engine died, past-him grabbed Cas by the face and kissed him. Cas returned it tentatively, unsure, always so unsure, then gave himself over to it like it was the last thing he would ever do. Their hands roamed everywhere. It was too intimate for even him to look at.

Charlie punched him in the shoulder. "You never told me you two were together!"

_Were_.

At the same time past-him hauled Cas into the back, he and Charlie appeared outside of the car, in the rain. Two peeping-toms looking in. Past-them started tearing each other's clothes off...

"Charlie, you can't see this."

"But—"

"Look away!"

Charlie growled and spun away, crossing her arms over her chest. "I expect a play-by-play, goddamnit."

He felt every touch they spared each other on his own skin. Cas kissed past-him hard on the mouth, and his own lips bruised. When Cas' tongue breached his lips, he could taste him and feel something raw radiating off him like solar storms on the sun. For past-him, it was lust. For Cas, unbridled, unchecked _love_. Dean gasped with it, and gripped baby's roof for support. Past-him slid hot and needy into Cas, and he felt that too, the pure arousal, the way Cas' body clenched around him, Cas' soft cry of joy. Tears prickled his eyes. Cas was so... _happy_ back then. Months later, after his trip to the future, after seeing Cas drugged to hell and back, sacrificed at his own hands... Dean had realized how much he loved him. How he'd never fallen harder for anyone else than he had with Cas.

Then, everything had gone to shit.

Dean watched them through the car windows, nestled in each other's arms, coming down from the climax of their first time. He'd forgotten how beautiful it'd been; realized it'd been the only time he'd ever been truly happy. He could see it in the smile on past-his face. Cas had never looked so alive, _human_ , than right now.

"Dude, we should go visit some of your other times together!"

"No!"

Lightning cracked the sky when he said it, and thunder growled angrily. Darkness rolled in, creeping toward them like sludge. Charlie took in a breath and said, "I think it's time to get back."

Another touch left them in his bedroom, safe and sound. Dean sat on the bed and dropped his head in his hands. The mattress shifted, and Charlie's warmth crowded him. She put a hand on his shoulder.

"Pretty sure you know what this is about now."

"Yeah."

Him and Cas.

"Promise me you'll fix it? You looked so happy."

Dean whipped his head up. "I told you not to look."

"You got me killed. Pretty sure you owed me one."

Dean sighed, patted her thigh and said, "Yeah."

"Fix it, okay? And when you get married, you better summon my sweet ass so I can attend." She beamed. "Anyway, I gotta go. Looks like my time's up."

Charlie got up to leave, but she didn't get very far. Dean tightened his fingers around her wrist. "Charlie..."

"Stop. We're good." She smiled. "I love you."

Dean smiled, too. "I know."

She pointed at him. "Fix this." 

Then, she was gone.

Dean got salt out of his closet and drew a circle around his bed, then went to sleep.

:::

Cold foreboding, etched into his skin like a tattoo, so deep he could feel it in his bones. 

Dean woke like the other two times in much the same way, with an invisible hand around his throat. He sputtered, jerked awake, and found darkness lingering at his door, like a bad neighbor up to no good. What was he up to now? The Present? Dean ran a hand down his face. The Past was bad enough—good but bad—and if all this was about him and Cas, the Present wouldn't be a walk in the park. Maybe he could skip this part. Tuck the covers up to his chin, or hide under them completely, and avoid the Present altogether. 

Dean did just that, blankets up and over his head—except he didn't have blankets anymore. Just... blank sheets of nothing, no pattern or color. The colors of his room started to dull or drain away completely, leaving an artist's rendition of his room half-done, just the outlines of everything. No detail. No life.

Weird as fuck.

"Enough with the games, asshole. Get out here."

The darkness bled a tall, gangly figure, expression a little bewildered... and ugly.

"The fuck. You're Present?"

Sam looked around his colorless, featureless room, then at him. "Am I dreaming?" A pause. "Is that a... salt ring around your bed?"

It was—and wasn't. Just a white line, like he'd drawn it in chalk, not salt. There but entirely useless. 

"Maybe." Dean flung back the covers. The floorboards were cold under his feet. He almost felt alive because he could actually feel _something_. "Bottom line: You're my Ghost of Christmas Present. Let's go."

He grabbed Sam's meaty arm and went out of his nondescript room through the equally nondescript door. They popped out into the hallway of the bunker. Perfect in every way, with colors, details... and dust he made a note to clean later. Behind them... a solid wall, like the room beyond it had never existed.

"One of those weird dreams, then," Sam muttered beside him.

"Yeah, one for the books."

He knew where to go even if Sam didn't. He knew where he'd be, or more importantly, where Cas would be, where he always would be. Dean led Sam through the bunker and into the main room where they found a very real sleeping Sam, face-down on the desk, laptop open and on... Netflix's website. Actual-Sam snorted in his sleep, drooling a little, and they exchanged glances. 

"So. You find anything on that Darkness shit?"

"Nah. I fell asleep half-way through an episode of Orange is the New Black."

Dean shook his head. "I swear, between you and Cas..."

The state of the kitchen stopped him dead. Dirty dishes in the sink, a Hot Pocket wrapper on the _counter_ instead of in the trash, and an empty beer bottle on the floor. Dean turned a narrowed glare at him. "Is this what you do at night? Watch Netflix and eat us out of house and home? This place is a fucking mess."

"Pretty sure we've got other stuff to deal with right now than worrying about a mess."

"You're a mess," Dean hissed, stooping low to pick up the bottle. As soon as his fingers touched cool glass, his energy—hell, his soul even—drained away little by little, until he deposited it onto the counter. He let go of it and stumbled against the wall, completely exhausted. Like he'd run a marathon or had sex for ten days straight. 

"Give me a sec." He heaved a breath.

Sam crossed his arms over his chest— "Was it worth it?" —then glanced at the fully upright bottle, not on the fucking floor, where it didn't belong.

"Yes," Dean said. "Yes, it fucking was."

After Dean got his bearings, they tore through the hallways and passages of the bunker, to his bedroom, way on the other fucking side where they'd started. The door was closed, but he slipped right through it like a proper ghost would, and laid eyes on his actual-self, sleeping soundly... with Cas sitting next to him. Exactly where he knew Cas would be. Cas ran a cool washcloth over his forehead, the love and adoration pouring off him almost enough to drop him to his knees. Sam caught him on the way down, and Dean brushed him off once he'd gotten his balance again, when whatever Cas was feeling right then simmered down to something manageable.

"You don't look that great," Sam said.

Real-him was covered in sweat, fever high, chills slithering over his body like snakes or bugs. Dean shuddered, could feel the heat himself but ignored it, muttering, "Curse."

"Again? When? At the library?"

"Shut up."

He'd heard a whisper, something low in Cas' throat. Dean inched closer, to stand right behind his shoulder, peeking over and tuning in as much as he could. Cas held one of his hands, thumb tracing soothing circles over his wrist. The washcloth slid down his skin and he swore, for just a second, he felt that same coolness spread over his face, down his neck. Again, with the cloth, again with that otherworldly feeling. Cas' gentle touch on his wrist manifested on his own, soft and real, and that overwhelming sense of love and adoration came back. Powerful, almost suffocating in its complexity—and that's when he felt it: an undercurrent of sadness. Emptiness. Loneliness. 

Like Cas thought he didn't love him at all.

"You two haven't been the same in a long time."

He glanced over his shoulder. Sam stood at the door, arms crossed, just looking at the two of them. His expression said Sam had known about them all along. That none of this was a surprise. Dean had always had the feeling that Sam had known all along too. That it was true? Wasn't a surprise either.

Dean looked back at them, the real versions of them, and clenched his jaw. Didn't say anything for a long time. Couldn't. Just thought of regrets and what should be but wasn't.

"Dean..." Cas watched him sleep, running that cool washcloth over his face, his neck. Anywhere hot and drenched in sweat. "I need you to wake up. I—I need to know you're okay."

After everything he'd done to him...

Dean clenched his jaw tighter and watched Cas kiss his forehead, dote on him with the cool rag, the simple touches on his wrist, then brushing fingers across his fever-flushed cheek. Always gentle, always loving.

"I don't..." Cas swallowed, "—care what's happened before. Between us. The lies, the betrayals. The Mark. None of it matters, Dean." The rag was cool across his face again. "I just want— _need_ you to come back to me in one piece. I can't lose you..." Cas bowed his head and whispered, "I love you."

He'd never heard him say those words before. Dean swallowed down a lump in his throat. Tried to keep it together until he couldn't, until a tear fell down his cheek, and he whispered Cas' name. The name echoed as if it'd come from another source, another mouth. By the way Cas leaned over his sleeping form, whispering his name, sweet nothings he couldn't hear, he knew actual-him had somehow whispered Cas' name through cracked lips. 

Then, like a punch might, Cas' love for him knocked him back, and Dean rocked on his heels for a second before staggering back, away from them, right into Sam. He bounced off his big brother like a ball and whirled away, off-balance and unfocused. He found refuge in the hallway, against the cold stone, the stale air. Away from the suffocating sense that, through all of it, everything they'd been through, Cas thought he didn't desperately love him. When always, from the first time he'd seen him, he had.

"He thinks you don't love him anymore," Sam said from behind him.

"No shit, Sherlock."

"You gotta fix this, Dean."

"I know that, _Sam_."

"I don't know how much longer he's going to hold on."

Dean whipped his head. "What's that supposed to mean?"

"All the shit you've put him through..." Sam took a breath. "Would _you_ stick around?"

He wouldn't. He would've left himself a long time ago. Hell, he wouldn't even have tried.

Dean opened his mouth when a tide of darkness washed everything away, stripping walls and floors, doors and furniture to nothingness. They stood on blackness, surrounded by it. Suspended in midair. With nothing but... Death waiting for them. Death stared at them—no, _him_ —with black eyes, pale skin like ancient parchment. Thin, fragile, stretched over milky-white bone. A thing from nightmares.

"He's for me," Dean said. "You go back and wake up. Check on Cas. Tell him I'm okay."

" _Are_ you going to be okay?"

"I don't know," he said truthfully. "My life has been 90% crap. Can't imagine a future where it'd be any better."

"Just come back, alright?"

"Who'd clean up after your ass if I didn't?"

Sam smiled, then punched his shoulder. He was gone before he could return the favor. 

"Tell Cas I'm alright!"

The words echoed hollowly, and Death outstretched his bony hand and pointed in a direction that led nowhere.

Dean took a deep breath. "Alright. Let's do this."

His world shifted before Dean could take a step in that direction.

:::

Endless darkness peeled away. He was nowhere as far as he could tell. Maybe on the outskirts of some shitty town, where the good townsfolk dumped their trash. Dean crunched a soda can underfoot. A scattering of junk mail was strewn across the upslope of an empty hill, its grass dead from too much sun exposure. He followed a small path around the hill with Death following closely behind, any attempt at communication completely ignored. Dean avoided those dead eyes by keeping his eyes forward. If he looked back, Death just pointed straight, and Dean walked where he was told. Going nowhere and everywhere all at once.

A tunnel opened up ahead, its mouth dark, its throat long. He stepped inside it and followed a trail of trash, coming upon a pile of newspapers stacked high, with a body hunched over on top. Whoever it was didn't look up at him, didn't see him, kept his back to him while he... tightened the tourniquet around his bare, dirty arm. The syringe came out of nowhere, lifted high then embedded in skin as a breathy sigh of pure satisfaction echoed in the tunnel. The man flopped back on his makeshift be—

" _Fuck_."

Dean whipped his head away and closed his eyes. Tried to wipe what he'd just seen out of his mind. He concentrated on something else instead, anything—the chill of the tunnel, the smell of the trash, of unwashed skin, even Death's shallow breathing... except it wasn't coming from Death at all. Quiet ribbons of life, of sweet noises, both blissed-out and high, didn't belong to he who was showing him his future.

He followed those noises and turned to find Cas on the ground, stretched and splayed over his pile of newspapers. Blue eyes, once so alive and beautiful, looked glassy, staring up at the tunnel's faded brick. His dry lips parted with a dazed smile, as if he were only happy while balancing on a knife's edge of living and dying. 

To see him like this, to know he'd done this to him—

Dean fell to his knees next to him. He tried to wipe the stray hair from his face, but his fingers went through him instead, like his touch had no meaning in this world. He tried to cup his shoulders anyway, tried to shake him as his eyes began to close, as Cas began to drift away from him. His breathing had grown more shallow, more wispy, eyes all but completely unfocused. Panic spiked his chest when Cas' head lolled to the side. With everything he was, wasn't, everything he had and didn't, he whispered, "Cas..."

Drugged out of his mind, Cas slowly opened his eyes and smiled, a far-off thing so unfocused, Dean didn't know if he was smiling at him at all. Then, Cas whispered, "I knew you'd never leave me..."

"Yeah, Cas. I'm here. I'm here." Dean clenched his jaw. "Stay with me, you hear me? Don't you dare fucking leave me."

That smile never wavered, but Cas' eyes unfocused again, eyelids drooping...

"Cas... Cas!"

"I love you, Dean."

Then, he was gone.

Dean slumped back with the last words Cas would ever say to him. Words he himself had never managed to say, hadn't dared. It was a choice he'd regret for the rest of his life. 

He stared at Cas while he slept, still breathing but shallowly, still alive, but barely. He'd live, he was certain, but knew that Cas, his Cas, the Cas he'd known for years, had died a long time ago. 

Cas faded away when Death gripped his shoulder tight.

::: 

Trees sprouted all around them. A forest. The smell of pine—of smoke—tickled his nose.

He whirled on Death. "We gotta go back, man. Cas is still alive. I can save him. I can make this right."

But Death only pointed to the clear path ahead of them.

It wound up, to the top of another hill, where he could see smoke billowing between the trunks of trees. He knew that smell—smoke and ash, burning wood, the scent of flesh when it burned—and didn't have to ask to know. To know where they were headed, up the path, to the clearing, to know who was watching as a body burned on stacks of wood. To know _who_ was burning to ash.

Sam swallowed hard as the heat from the flames licked at his cheeks. Tears fell from his eyes as the body burned, as his brother burned, as _he_ burned. For a moment, Dean wondered how he'd died, then decided he didn't care. It didn't matter. He was gone. It was done. Finally, it was over.

Whether he was in Heaven or Hell, he didn't care either.

"So, this is how it ends, huh?"

Sam brushed the tears from his eyes and walked away, into the forest, disappearing. He hoped Sam future was better than the one he'd forced him into.

"Is this our future? I die and Cas, what? Wastes away?" Dean turned to Death. "Tell me Sam goes on to have a good life."

Death simply pointed again, at his burning body. Dean looked at himself, flames all around him, on him, eating through him. Charring his skin, burning... so... hot and painful—so...

He jolted as the flames devoured his arms, his legs, crawled up his throat and covered his face. He was lying down, on wood, skin plopping off, sizzling... He was burning.

—and it wasn't a dream.

:::

Dean jerked up, patting down his arms, his body, trying to get the flames off—but there were none. There were only other hands—Cas' hands—all over him, touching his face, whispering sweet nothings to calm him down. He looked him fully in the face. _Really_ looked at him. His best friend, the anchor in his mess of a life—his angel. Cas' eyes were wide with concern, that dusting of red still polluting the whites. Reminding him that Cas' freedom had once again been taken from him, and that all of this, everything that'd happened to Cas ever since he'd met him in that barn—was ultimately his fault. All of Cas' sacrifices, his family, his life, his dignity, everything that mattered, was because of him. Because somehow, regardless of how fucked up he was, Cas loved him.

"Dean..." Another touch to his face. This time, Dean leaned into it. "Are you okay?"

"Yeah, just a... really fucked up nightmare."

Cas nodded. "Is it over?"

"Honestly?" Dean clenched his jaw. "No, it's not over. I wake up every day, living a nightmare..." _Without you_. "Cas..." Dean took a deep breath. "Everything I've put you through, kicking you out of the bunker all those months ago, beating you up—"

"That was because of the Mark."

"Still. I shouldn't have done that. I should've been stronger than that. I should've... fuck, Cas..." Dean gripped him by the shoulders, "I fucking love you, and—shit, I'm sorry. For _everything_. I—"

Whatever he would've said next never happened. Cas crushed their mouths together, kissing him, before he could get another word out. He would've said that he missed this; Cas' strong, sure hands bracketing his neck, keeping him still, close, so Cas could kiss him as hard and as desperately as he wanted. He would've said how much he loved Cas' sweet noises, the ones he made in the back of his throat when he was aroused and needing every touch Dean could give him. Right now, he'd give him everything—the moon if he wanted it.

Dean slid his hands under his trenchcoat, his jacket, lifting up the back of his dress shirt. Bare skin waited for him, and Cas arched his back when Dean drew a line along his spine. Whimpered something beautiful as Cas pushed him flat on the bed and lowered himself flush, chest to chest, and kissed his collarbone. It'd been too long since they'd been like this, more than best friends. He couldn't remember the last time.

"I do," Cas whispered against his skin. He must've said what he'd been thinking out loud. "I remember kissing your throat, your chest... You liked it when I lavished your nipples with attention."

Dean arched his back off the bed when Cas mouthed his left nipple, swirling his tongue around it, nipping it lightly with his teeth. He'd forgotten how fucking... _kinky_ Cas could be. If he hadn't been hard, he certainly was now. His cock strained against their bodies, and Cas smiled like he knew. Cas moved to the other nipple, sucking, licking, drawing out a noise from his throat that he'd never admit was his. Back to his lips then, another kiss just as devastating and passionate as the first. Forgiving in how loving it was.

"Our last time..." Dean whispered between chaste kisses. "Still doesn't ring any bells."

Challenge lit up Cas' eyes, and he kissed down his throat, stopping at each nipple again, then went lower, kissing his navel, unbuckling his belt and jeans buttons, the zipper, to reveal everything underneath. Jeans and boxers were yanked down, and Cas laid a gentle kiss on his hipbones, pointedly ignoring his cock. Teasing it with the soft brush of his cheek as he paid attention to something else. When Cas licked the length of him, their last time came to him in fractured pieces. It'd been after Cas had finally come back from Purgatory, before Naomi had taken him away again. After he'd gotten cleaned up... sometime when they'd finally had a private moment together. Cas had worshiped him with his mouth, his fingers, his everything—a memory that became abundantly clear when Cas closed his mouth over him, sucking him. Worshiping him again.

Cas was the one who should be worshiped.

Gently, Dean pried him off, ignoring his protests. With a turn of bodies and a push, after Dean had torn off his clothes, Cas was laying on the bed, completely naked and ready for him, looking at him in complete wonder. It almost took his breath away. Cas like this, so trusting, so in love... Dean swallowed hard and lowered himself down, their naked bodies flush, touching, more incredible than anything in the world. This was how it should always be between them; together, in love—nothing else mattered. He forgot all of their problems when he kissed Cas' throat and Cas moaned low.

Just like before, Dean kissed his collarbone, making his way down to Cas' nipples. He gave the left one a suck, licked it, and nipped it, like Cas had done moments before—all to the tune of Cas' sweet, quiet noises, full of surrender. The right one got the same loving, doting attention, then Dean traveled south, planting kisses like seeds down his chest, his navel. He took a detour to Cas' narrow hips, kissing the angular bones, nipping at them. The soft patch of skin just below his hipbones, halfway between them and his cock was his favorite place. Soft and sensitive, Dean nuzzled it, kissed it, spent minutes there, just worshipping and listening to Cas' struggle. Thin fingers curled in what little hair he had and gripped. Anticipation, maybe. Eagerness. _Need_.

When Dean lifted his head up, Cas let out a hiss of a breath, and Dean just smiled.

"Can't quite remember how this rest of this goes, Cas," Dean said cheekily. "Help me."

Cas licked his lips and looked at him, then back up to the ceiling. Exasperated. "You know what happens."

"No. Don't think I do, Cas." Dean brushed his cheek against Cas' hard cock. Cas whimpered. "Remind me."

"I—" Another subtle brush. Cas took in a sharp breath of air. "I sucked..."

"Mmhm."

"I sucked your cock, Dean." Breathless. Like saying it aloud was a horrible sin.

"Is that what you want me to do?" Dean licked a stripe down his length. "Suck your cock?"

"Yes—please, _yes_."

Dean took him inside his mouth, down to the hilt. So eagerly that he gagged on it. So enthusiastic about sucking cock that Cas gasped above him and tightened his fingers in his hair. When Cas wiggled his hips, needing more, harder, anything, Dean sucked him until his jaw hurt, until, with the rhythm he set, Cas jerked his hips upward to get more of whatever Dean was giving him. Dean let Cas fuck his mouth, let Cas hold his head and drive into him as hard and as fast as he wanted to go. He concentrated on breathing through his nose, letting his jaw grow slack, and Cas took and took—just the way _he_ had the last time they'd fucked. Dean remembered now. Dean hadn't given a single inch to Cas. He took the whole time, driving into Cas until he gagged.

Even as a partner, Dean was a greedy and selfish asshole.

Cas slowed his hips right then, never brutal, never taking it as far as Dean had. Slowly, carefully, like he was making love, Cas drove his cock into his mouth, inch by inch, savoring every second. Dean looked up at him, all splayed out, sex hazing his half-lidded eyes. Dean watched him as Cas studied the way his cock disappeared into his mouth, and the sight alone, of him enjoying it so much, of feeling Cas' thighs quake under his touch like he was about to blow, was the most beautiful, sexy thing he'd ever seen. Cas kept pumping into him, faster, and Dean knew Cas would be satisfied coming like this. But...

Dean pulled off. "That's not how this went."

Cas jerked his head up, eyes wild and hair in angry spikes all over his head. He was breathing heavily now, panting for it, chest heaving with big gulps of air. He'd been so close. Dean could see it in his eyes.

"What happened next, Cas?"

Dean knew what was coming and it wasn't something he normally did. Ever. He could remember the one or two times it had ever happened, when he and Cas were on the same page, no issues between them. When he'd trusted Cas with everything.

Cas studied him closely, and it was a heavy thing. As always, Cas saw right through to his soul and said, "We don't have to do this."

"Cas..."

Cas swallowed and took a shallow breath. "You fucked me."

Dean crawled up his body and kissed his lips hard, chasing down that filthy word with his tongue. It was so unlike him to swear, and it fucking turned him on so badly, he didn't care what went up his ass and how. Dean tangled his fingers into Cas' hair and pulled it, kissing him until he couldn't breathe, until Cas moaned and dragged his hips up and against his. The friction sent him into a frenzy, and Dean pressed his hips down, on top of Cas', grinding until they were so close to saying _fuck it_ and letting loose. But that wasn't how this was supposed to go.

He pulled away from Cas' lips and fished for the lube and condoms, holding up the latter and asking, "We need this?" He wanted to be sure, for Cas' sake. But Cas slapped away the package in a definite _no_. 

Dean squirted lube in his hands, slicking himself up, preparing himself for the inevitable. It was awkward doing it to himself, fingering his hole, Cas watching him like it was the most erotic thing he'd ever seen. He felt self-conscious and suddenly nothing was sexy anymore. "I fingered you last time?"

"No," Cas said, mesmerized. "I didn't need it." 

"Well, I do, so..." He looked down at him. "Will you... help me?"

His world shifted so suddenly he couldn't make heads or tails of it. All he knew was that Cas had moved him up enough so that Cas' mouth was level with his chest, sucking on a nipple, giving it attention, loving it, while his fingers slipped past his balls, to caress his hole. Cas' fingers... they weren't demanding, just gentle. Patient. Completely, incredibly _erotic_. They teased his entrance for as long as Dean would let him, before Dean got impatient with _need_ and rocked his body back against them. Every brush of them lit his entire body on fire, and he wanted them inside him now, and groaned loud enough to tell him so. Just the tip of one of Cas' fingers sunk inside, and Dean growled with it, grinding his cock against Cas' chest for friction, wiggling his hips back just to get his finger fully inside him. He'd forgotten how much he enjoyed getting finger-fucked by Cas, the rare times they'd done it. He'd always felt ashamed afterward, but right now? Fuck feeling ashamed.

With a single thrust back, Cas' entire finger was inside him—and both of them groaned with it. Cas kept sucking his nipples, trading one for the other, while his finger worked inside him. Then there were two, and Dean's vision blurred with how fucking incredible it felt. Incredible, but not enough. Never enough.

Dean rolled his spine, somehow found Cas' lips and kissed them. Breathlessly, between kisses, he said, "Cas, I need you to fuck me."

Cas looked at him, lust-filled, wide-eyed, like he hadn't heard him correctly. Like this was all some sort of dream. Dean made it reality by straddling him, reaching back and grabbing his cock. Cas bit his lower lip and grabbed onto his thighs, bracing himself. Dean did too, and positioned Cas' cock, sinking down on it slowly, gently, so he wouldn't regret it in the morning. Cas' fingers drew soothing circles on his thighs, soft thumbs repositioning to brush over hipbones—just sweet touches while Dean adjusted, while his body accepted Cas and everything he was. The need to move came quickly, and Dean rocked his hips once, slowly, just to test the waters. No pain, not even discomfort, giving him the license to fuck Cas senseless, apologize for everything he'd ever done.

Chest to chest again, Dean kissed him softly before the onslaught started. Before Dean thrust his hips forward and back so hard, so eagerly, that the bed hissed in agony. Cas shot out a groan and ending up choking on it, the surprise of his enthusiasm taking them both by surprise. When Cas recovered, he grabbed ahold of Dean's hips and helped with the momentum, the pace ratcheting up, harder, faster. Sweat poured off their bodies, the smell of their sex sharp and intoxicating. Dean cupped the back of Cas' head and looked into his eyes, kissing him when he couldn't breathe, fucking him hard and recklessly when he could. It was desperate and messy, their sex, making up for lost time, mending broken pieces, knitting together what they once were. Dean apologized with another kiss, on the very edge of coming. Cas trembled under him, and he knew Cas was close too.

Then, Cas shoved Dean's hips down punishingly on his cock, once, twice—and everything fell apart. Cas went rigid and still under him and let out a groan that undoubtedly woke up the dead. Not moments later, Dean spilled over Cas' stomach, every pulse ripping his insides apart. They came down together, wrapped in each other's arms. 

This was how it was meant to be, how it'd always be from now on.

"I'm not going to let anything come between us ever again," Dean whispered.

"Promise?"

"I promise."

Ghosts—hell, the universe even—be damned.

:::

They found Sam passed out across his research (Netflix), with a single beer upright where he'd left it. Dean jostled him awake, and with bleary eyes, Sam looked up, a paper clip attached to his face. 

"How's that research going?"

Sam looked at the open page of Netflix, then minimized it. "Uh. Good. Real good."

"Yeah? How're the girls at Litchfield doing? They gonna help us with the Darkness?"

Sam narrowed his eyes. "How'd you know—"

"Doesn't matter. Look. It's Christmas, and Cas and I are feeling like we should celebrate a little. You in?"

"Pie and decorations," Cas declared.

"Uh, yeah. Sure. Just let me get my coat."

"We'll meet you by the door."

Sam bumbled around the library, grabbing his coat, stopping dead in front of the upright beer bottle. Dean kept his grin under control while Sam's face screwed up in confusion, when he said, "Holy shit. I had the weirdest dream."

"Tell us about it in the car."

In the garage, they all climbed into the Impala. Sam regaled them about Christmas ghosts and Dean's neat-freak control issues on the way to the store, while Dean shared a private smile with Cas in the rearview mirror. Cas smiled back, happier than he'd seen him in a long, long time—and that was all Dean needed. His angel, his brother—family.

And pie.


End file.
